Fake
by Contrarian
Summary: [Complete!] Enticed by lies and feigned sympathy, Ginny Weasley poured her soul into the diary of Tom Riddle, only to be crushed in the relentless grip of reality... This is my version of their exchange.
1. Chapter 1

This is a one-shot, and kind of an odd choice of a topic, I guess. But what can I say – it seemed like an interesting idea to me. And I liked the idea of what went on between Tom Riddle and Ginny when she was writing in his diary. If Tom seems OOC to you, remember that he must be very good at lying and getting people to trust him, so while he may be acting gentler than may strike your fancy, remember it's all a lie, and how he probably would have persuaded Ginny to let him further in her mind. That said, Harry Potter is the property of J.K. Rowling…I own nothing but the plot.

_Fake_

_Chapter 1_

It was a trial, being eleven years old. Most people thought that thirteen or sixteen or one of the later years was the most difficult, that younger children were still carefree and innocent, and had no troubles whatsoever because they were sure that whatever happened, their parents would be there to take care of it, or an idea similar to this. Either everyone was extremely misinformed or she was very different, and she was hoping that she wasn't different. After all, everyone said hearing voices wasn't a good sign even in the magical world, and someone else, completely invisible and mysterious, writing to you was probably just as bad, if not worse.

She had been warned by her parents to never trust anything that thinks for itself, not if she couldn't see where it keeps its brain. But those words of advice had faded into the back of her mind when she had discovered the secret of the little diary she had found, wedged between the cover and first page of her worn Transfiguration textbook.

She had been drawn to it at first because it looked so nice. It wasn't worn or damaged in any way, and the black leather was very soft. She had flipped the gold-trimmed pages to find the paper was of a pleasing texture, rather thick and almost rubbery, and she had been eager to see the effect of ink on paper like that. It was so perfect and expensive-looking compared to everything else she owned, better than anything her brothers had too. She had been foolishly excited, and had taken it up to her dormitory as soon as she got settled in what was to be her room for a year. After carefully drawing the crimson hangings around her bed closed she had sprawled out, stomach down, on her bed with her battered quill and a half-full jar of ink. She had considered writing her name on the first page, but decided against it because that was a whole page of this wonderful book wasted, and who knew if she would ever own something as nice again? So instead she began her first entry, her handwriting a little sloppy because her hand was shaking a bit with eagerness. She imagined briefly of filling the book with brilliant thoughts and deep secrets, and had lowered her quill full of happy plans.

_Hi, _she had written down, feeling kind of stupid for not having anything more interesting to say for her first word in this record of her life. _I guess you want to know who I am! My name's Ginny Weasley. Well, Ginevra, really, but no one calls me that. It's too long for __me._

It had almost scared her out of her skin when her words were sucked into the page like a drink through a straw. She had barely stifled a scream. The book was alive!

She was about to slap it closed and throw it out the window when the ink bubbled back to the surface of the page. Her eyes glued to the page in a sort of horrific fascination as the ink formed into words. Not in her own clumsy handwriting, but in a flowing, almost pretty, script.

**_Hello Ginny, _**the ink spelled out. She felt her breath catch in her throat. How…? ****

****

**_It's wonderful to meet you_**, the hidden consciousness continued. **_I haven't had anyone write to me in the longest time._**

****

She didn't know what to do. She was sorely tempted to chuck the book away and never think about it again, but…maybe it was the handwriting, or the friendly words. Maybe it was her own, childish stupidity, but she found herself dipping her quill in ink again and responding.

_Who are you?_

She waited as the ink was absorbed by the page, imagined she could hear the thing breathing as it took in her question. There was a slight pause before the ink rose back to the surface. This time the response was short.

****

**_My name is Tom_**, it said. Ginny dipped the quill in the ink again and scrawled, _How__ can you talk to me? I should throw this freaky book away._

**_Don't do that_**, "Tom" had said, his script suddenly more slanted and urgent-looking. **_Please, it's been lonely without someone to talk to me. I can't hurt you – it's just a charm on the book that I cast so I could meet new people._**

****

Her naiveté, possessed by all children her age, wouldn't allow her to come up with another explanation. Her naturally trusting nature kicked in, and she found herself writing back yet again.

_You promise? It wouldn't hurt to have someone to talk to, I guess. I just started here at school and I don't really know anyone yet but my brothers, and they'd be embarrassed if I talked to them in front of their friends._

**_I promise. Why wouldn't your brothers talk to you? You seem like a nice girl to me._**

****

_You don't even know me yet, but it's because I'm younger. They don't think I know anything._

She watched bitterly as the ink was sucked into the page. Tom's reply, when it came, was refreshingly sympathetic.

**_I can understand that. Older siblings can be rude, can't they? But you sound intelligent to me, and soon you'll have enough friends that you won't care if they ignore you a bit._**

****

_You think?_

**_I'm sure. But tell me about yourself – if we're going to be friends, I'd like to know more than your name._**

****

Friends. With one word she was hooked, and she knew it. There would be no turning back now – she wanted a friend more than anything.

_You really want to be friends with me? You don't have to just because I found the book. I could give it to someone more interesting._

****

**_No, no – I want to be friends with _****you_, Ginny. You're interesting, trust _****_me._******

****

And foolishly, naively, that's exactly what she did. And although she didn't know it, a bond was created between them when she wrote, _OK…we're friends, then._ Except it wasn't a bond of friendship, as she had suspected, but the faintest, obscurest part of her mind slipped into the control of the diary's true owner, although she had no way of knowing that at the time.

-

a/n: I know it's short, but the story isn't going to be very long, either – maybe five or six chapters – and it also means I'll be updating quicker than I usually do. Obviously, Tom's writing is bold, while Ginny's is plain italics. Leave a review and tell me what you think, please! Criticism and nitpicking are welcome here.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry Potter is the property of J.K. Rowling. Not mine – I freely admit this – so don't sue me.

_Fake_

_Chapter 2_

Weeks passed, and she became more and more familiar with "Tom", who she by now trusted wholeheartedly and to whom she confided the dark secrets she had once imagined writing only for her own eyes to see.

_It's so frustrating, _she had complained at one point. _I do everything I can to get him to notice me. I do really well in school; I go to every Quidditch game and cheer as loudly as I can. I congratulate him after the games, too! What am I doing wrong?_

**_Don't worry, _**Tom had said patiently, although by now he had heard about Ginny's pining for Harry so much she was surprised he hadn't told her to shut up about it. **_He'll come around in time. You're very special, Ginny. More special than you know. And he'll see it soon._**

Reassured by his words, she had smiled from behind the shield of her hangings, pleased and flattered by the compliments Tom continually bestowed upon her. He was dear to her – no one was like him. No one.

_I'm so lucky to have you to talk to, Tom, _she had said, sighing aloud in gratitude as she wrote it. _You're the only one who understands. I couldn't tell anyone else about these things, but you always know exactly what to say._

**_Thank you, Ginny, _**he had responded, and she imagined she could hear the warmth that must be in his voice. **_You're very insightful for so young. It's lucky for me that it was you who found my book – I could be talking to some dimwit instead of you._**

She giggled and closed her eyes, secure in this secret friendship. She was especially proud of herself for not telling anyone about her secret friend. She was sure that if her family found out they'd want to see, and maybe even take the book away from her. She didn't want that to happen, not ever. She was appalled at herself for ever thinking of getting rid of the book. Tom understood her like no one else, she felt as though they had a sort of mental connection. He always knew how she was feeling, was always able to make her feel better and more confident. No one could be as lucky as her.

After saying goodbye to him she had slid the book under her pillow and gone to the window by her bed, where she could see part of the Quidditch field. She could see the dark shapes flying about, but couldn't pick out individual shapes or faces – they were much too far away. But she supposed the one flying high up and weaving around must be Harry, the boy she had set her sights on and who she thought about more often than Tom. If someone like Tom was confident in her, then she must be more special than she thought. No doubt Harry would notice her soon. Happiness swelled inside her like a bright balloon.

It didn't last long.

-

_I have a bit of a headache /i , _she wrote later. _I feel really dreamy, and my thoughts keep running into each other. I don't like it, Tom._

**_Just take deep breaths – you're probably more tired than you think._**

For once his response didn't soothe her. She fought the feeling, but it threatened to overwhelm her. She had never felt anything quite like this before: loss of control. Her thoughts slid around like melting butter in a hot, swaying pan. She couldn't even write. She was so torn between increasing pain and drowsiness she didn't know what to do. Tears sprung unbidden to her eyes, and she whispered, "Are you doing this, Tom? What's going on?"

Odd pictures swam into view: a bathroom with a row of sinks, with a curvy line scratched into the tap of one of them. Someone was hissing in a strange, terrible tongue. A girl was lying on her back, glassy eyes turned towards the ceiling, but Ginny knew they weren't seeing anything. The girl wasn't breathing…a shrill laugh made her head feel like it was going to explode with pain…she felt herself dropping down, and a sudden pressure on her mind…

When she jerked awake again she fell over. She was standing in front of a stone wall, staring at blood-red letters that covered a good portion of the stone.

_The Chamber of Secrets has been opened, _she read with mounting bewilderment and an unexplained fear. _Enemies of the heir, beware._

Who had done this? How did she even get here in the first place? She may have been sleepwalking, she reasoned. Even though she had never done it before, she hadn't been feeling well at all. Maybe if she was sick, she would…

She reached up to brush her hair off her sweaty brow, and her fingers touched something damp. She looked down at her robes and gasped, the air squeezing its way out of her lungs until she couldn't breathe.

Red paint…all over her robes…she looked up at the wall and back down at herself again. Before she could even fully put the two together, she was sprinting down the corridor, blindly weaving her way back to the common room. It was mercifully empty – everyone was at dinner, and she ripped the robes off her body as soon as she closed the dormitory door behind her. She shoved them deep in her trunk and put on a clean pair, checking in the mirror for any paint on her hands or neck or arms. She washed thoroughly even when she didn't find anything.

She was crying, crying so hard she could barely breathe. She collapsed on her bed and yanked the black book out from under her pillow, ripping it open and scrawling, i _Tom, what just happened? Was I sleepwalking/i _

She waited a full three minutes, but there was no response.

_Did you do this to me? Did you make me paint the wall? I swear I could sense you._

Still the page remained stubbornly blank.

_Tom! Say something!_

_-_

a/n: Okay, so that chapter was even shorter. Lovely, right? Hope it was good enough to make up for the lack of content…


	3. Chapter 3

Hey everyone! Thanks for your patience. This chapter is one of the longest in the story – enjoy the relative lengthiness! Thanks to everyone who reviewed – I really appreciate it more than I can say. This site is all that keeps me sane sometimes. On to the chapter then, and if you have something you want to say, leave a review!

Disclaimer: Not mine.

_Fake_

_Chapter 3_

**_Ginny?_******

****

Tom's script had been waiting for her the next time she opened the book, no doubt formed from the ink of the previous day. She scowled at it and bared her quill.

_What do _you_ want?_

**_Ginny, what's wrong? I didn't know what you were talking about when you wrote to me yesterday – I didn't know how to respond._**

****

_Do you think I'm stupid? If you didn't know what I was talking about you would have _asked_. You've done it before._

**_You shocked me_**, he persisted. **_You were blaming me for something, and I didn't know what. If I had asked what was going on you would have just assumed I was lying about not knowing. I know you, Ginny – you're spirited._**

****

She didn't know what to say to that; he had a point, after all. She just would have yelled at him and he still wouldn't have known what was going on. Suddenly her head felt very heavy. She trusted Tom, she did, but the events of last night had scared her in a way she didn't believe possible. Sleepwalking or not, she was sure that she would never have done something like painting the wall on her own. And today she had found out something had happened to Mrs. Norris. True, the cat was hated by all, and everyone was more worried about whatever it was that did it getting them than the cat's well-being, but if she'd done something to hurt it…she'd always rather liked cats. It didn't bear thinking about.

_I don't know what to do. A cat's been hurt, and I think I did it. What's going on, Tom?_

**_…I'm not sure._**

****

The words came slowly, and she could imagine the thoughtful tone that he would use if he was speaking to her. She closed her eyes and felt her damp lashes against her skin. A tear fell onto the page and was absorbed. Ink bubbled back onto the page.

**_Are you crying, Ginny?_**

****

She shut the book and stashed it in her trunk, locking it securely. She buried her face in her pillow and drew in a shuddering breath. For the first time since she'd met him, Tom was unable to help her, or even make her feel better. She couldn't shake the feeling she'd had right before she blacked out. She got a certain feeling of Tom when he wrote to her. She had imagined his presence so many times she was certain she would know him if she saw him. And she had been sure that he was somewhere near her when she had fainted or sleepwalked or whatever she had been doing. He had been close, very close.

Could she trust him, really? He had been nothing but kind and helpful to her so far, but what if it was all an act? Was he lying to her? She shuddered at the thought of being fooled.

But that was stupid. It was a book, for God's sake. A book that wrote back because of a charm, and nothing more. A book couldn't manipulate her or hurt her – the very idea was laughable. She sat up and wiped her eyes on her sheet. There was an explanation for it all. She hadn't seen Mrs. Norris when she had found herself by the wall – maybe whatever it was that hurt the cat came by later. It had to be a sort of freakish coincidence. She would just get more sleep and relax and it wouldn't happen again.

She lay down again and stared at her trunk until she fell asleep, all the while picturing the book within. It seemed to burn her from its place hidden beneath her robes.

-

There was clamor on the Quidditch field. The rain beat down viciously and made it hard for Ginny to make out the blurs on the field. She forced her small body forward, heart thumping, hand over the bulge in the inside pocket of her cloak where Tom's diary rested. She squinted through the sheets of rain and a flash of bright robes caught her eye. It was Lockhart, standing over Harry. She gulped as the handsome teacher waved his wand with a flourish.

Gasps and cries started in the innermost circle around Harry and spread. She got a good look at the boy's arm and gasped. It looked like a deflated rubber glove. A faint buzzing sounded in her ears, and she felt nauseous. Lockhart was trying to defend himself and people were pressing forward to get to Harry. She stumbled backwards and ran with trembling legs towards the castle, relieving her stomach on the way.

The rain beat down on her bent head as she coughed and kept going, nearly slipping on the stairs. Thunder rolled outside as she entered the common room and sank down on one of the armchairs. A fire roared in the grate, and she drew out Tom's diary, relieved when it was only a little damp. She set it on the table in front of her and let it dry out, flipping the thick pages and breathing in their scent. It was a nice, sort of old smell that reminded her of the library. Once it was fully dry she carried it up to her dorm and sat beneath the window, the book on her lap.

_Hey Tom, _she wrote, _you'll never believe what just happened. Poor Harry!_

**_What happened?_**

****

It was a quicker response than usual – his handwriting looked rushed.

_He was hit by a stray Bludger during the Quidditch game today. The thing was intent on hitting him, and it smashed into his arm and broke it! He still got the Snitch, but our Defense Against the Dark Arts teacher tried to heal the break and ended up doing something to his arm…it looked like a deflated balloon._

**_It sounds like he removed the bones_**, Tom replied after a pause. **_Your teacher must be a real imbecile if he mixed up those incantations._**

****

_He is sort of…odd_, she conceded, trying to be nice about it. Daft or not, she didn't like insulting her professors. Especially when everyone else swooned over him – it would have felt strange to say anything further.

**_Have you been feeling better? _**he asked, and she was touched by his concern. She had written only sparsely since the incident with the paint and Mrs. Norris. If anything, she would have expected him to be a little angry with her for blaming him, but he had been gracious about it.

_Yes. I'm sorry I tried to accuse you for it. I must have been sleepwalking, but everyone was in such an uproar over it I didn't know what to do._

**_It's all right_**, he replied. **_I forgave you a long time ago for that._**

****

There was a short pause, and then he wrote something she found a little surprising.

**_We have a connection, don't you think?_**

_What do you mean?_

**_I can tell how you're feeling when you write, like I'm watching your face as you put down the words. It makes it all the more real, as if I'm really talking to you. Do you feel that way as well?_**

****

That was exactly how she felt sometimes. It was like they had known each other forever, the way they communicated. She could always tell when he was concerned or sympathetic, and he always seemed to know how she felt and what to do about it.

_Yes, I feel that way too._

**_It's nice, isn't it? Like we know each other outside these pages._**

****

_It's nice, yes._

She knew she wasn't being particularly eloquent, but she couldn't think of what to say to this, especially since she had been thinking exactly the same thing lately.

**_Tell me some more about yourself. How you've been feeling since we last talked for a while. Since the incident with the cat you told me about you haven't been writing nearly as much. I missed talking to you._**

****

Touched and pleased that he cared enough about her to miss her company, she complied. She wrote about how she was doing her best to get Harry to notice her, how she planned on sending him a card in the hospital wing, and how guilty she had felt about the writing on the wall.

_Even though I didn't really have control over it, I still feel like I should own up every now and then, particularly when I see how all my teachers look worried. But I'm afraid if I do that I'll get in all sorts of trouble. What if they don't understand that it wasn't really my fault?_

Words of solace and reassurance flowed from his end. And the more she wrote, the harder it was to stop. She felt like she had to tell him these things, ignored the fact that there was really no reason why he should care about her pining for Harry and her worries about school and friends. It was as if he was reading her mind, and she felt like a door was opening in her consciousness somewhere.

Pain hit her like a truck, and she dropped her quill.

"Ow," she whimpered, and scooped up the diary and ink with one hand, and leaving her quill lying on the floor. She dropped the book in her trunk and lay down on her bed, trying to make it go away.

Then she felt it. The sense that she was not alone, that something was there in her head. She could feel it probing, searching, and the farther it got in the worse her head hurt.

"Go away," she whispered, batting the air above her weakly, as though the thing was out there and extending a hand into her mind. Her brain felt like it was being stabbed with a knife, her head was in a vice. She had never felt anything so terrible.

And at the same time she was curiously sleepy. She knew, somehow, that if she closed her eyes she could drop off to sleep in spite of the blinding pain around her. If she went to sleep, she wouldn't feel it. She needed no further prompting. She shut her eyes and welcomed the numbing darkness that flowed over her like black water.


	4. Chapter 4

This chapter is really pitifully short – just over 1,000 words – and probably not enough to compensate for the wait at all. But I couldn't go any farther without making it too long – there wasn't going to be another place to stop for quite a while. As much as I would like to make up for it by getting the next chapter up in a few days, finals are fast approaching and this will be my last update until next Friday or so. Sorry about that. Thanks to all reviewers! Hopefully you'll enjoy the chapter, short as it is.

**Disclaimer**: All Harry Potter characters belong to J.K. Rowling. I own nothing but the plot.

_Fake_

_Chapter 4_

_Something was hissing and spitting. A green blur moved in and out of focus in front of Ginny, and her head hurt badly every time she tried harder to see what it was. It towered above her, like a thick, green tree trunk, and the hissing filled her ears. She was standing on hard ground, not the carpet of her dorm. She could see white around her, white and grey. _

_The thing was moving. She kept pace with it, could feel the strain of her muscles as she was carried along, powerless, in the direction of the long, green blur. She felt her tongue move, heard the hiss. Was she doing this? Such an odd dream…_

_Everything flickered and went out of focus. For a time she knew nothing, but every once in a while she would see the green out of the corner of her eye._

_Someone was yelling. There was a bright flash, and a dull thump. And she was hissing again, the thing was surging back in the direction it came. The ache in her skull increased, rising steadily and reaching its peak…_

She was back – everything went back into focus so fast she couldn't see right for a moment. Reality rushed in with a feeling of sickening dread, and she looked down slowly, her whole body shaking. She could hear her teeth chattering; the sound filled her ears.

A boy lay on his back on the floor, stiff and pale as though dead. A camera was held in front of his face, from which thin wisps of smoke emerged.

She needed nothing more to identify the person. The camera was famous by now in Hogwarts, carried always by Colin Creevey. Tears sprung to her eyes, and she stumbled backwards, past a window where moonlight cast her shadow on the motionless boy on the stone floor.

She ran again. She'd been doing a lot of running these past few weeks. She flew through the hallways blindly, finally collapsing on her knees in a narrow, deserted corridor. She shook like she would never stop, her teeth rattled in her head. She drew her knees up to her chin and wrapped her arms around her legs, and she still trembled. Hot tears fell on freezing stone.

This _was_ her fault, it was no dream. She hadn't been sleepwalking, or hallucinating. And she hadn't done it on her own. Something had been there, manipulating her, hurting her whenever she tried to wake. Something that had felt vaguely familiar, and foreign at the same time. She couldn't place it, and didn't try to. She was hurting people.

_Oh, no!_

What would her family think if they found out? What would they do? They would be so disappointed in her. She would have to be locked up, kept away from everyone else at all costs. She wouldn't be allowed to sleep, maybe, or to see her family. And Harry…she couldn't be around Harry, what if she hurt him next? She couldn't be around anyone!

With a sob she pulled herself to her feet and ran back to the common room. She would have to hide it, that's all. And she would have to keep herself from sleeping. No one would ever guess, no one would ever know. She wouldn't hurt anyone, and everything would be fine.

She pulled the blanket off her bed and went down to one of the chairs in front of the fire. She sat and pulled the blanket around her, settling in for what would probably be a long night. She stared into the dancing flames and watched them diminish. The hours passed slowly, and she had to continuously jerk herself awake. By the time the flames had died away and left only faintly glowing embers, she had started to cry again from exhaustion.

-

Not sleeping was torturous. At nights she would stare into the fire and drink icy water, occasionally flicking her face with droplets of it to keep herself awake. During the day she could hardly keep her eyes open, and she accidentally dropped off more than a few times in History of Magic, but never long enough to be a threat (in her mind) to anyone else. In the end she had given up trying to take notes; her mind would twist the words and she'd end up writing down nonsense. She didn't write to Tom either. Exhaustion and suspicion prevented her from even trying.

Percy had taken her pale face and sluggish attitude as a sign of a cold, and forced her to go down to Madame Pomfrey. The nurse had looked a little suspicious, especially when she took in the dark circles under Ginny's eyes, but in the end had given her a dose of Pepperup Potion and allowed her to leave.

"Get some rest!" she had called after Ginny, who was all too aware that it looked like her head was on fire. The mediwitch's face was slightly pinched with concern.

On Saturday, she failed to stay awake and fell asleep in the armchair. She woke up at eleven on Sunday with people milling around, and a few asked if she was sick. She had been so relieved to feel alert and rested that she hadn't responded.

Later in the day she had written to Tom.

**_Good_**, he had said after she had greeted him, **_I was starting to get worried about you. It's been days – where have you been?_**

****

_I've been really tired, _she responded truthfully, and told him about what had happened with Colin, tears brimming again at the thought.

_It's my fault, Tom! I don't know what I was doing or what that thing was, but I was directing it! Something was there, with me, making me walk. My head hurt so much when I tried to wake up. I tried not to sleep so I wouldn't hurt anyone else, but I couldn't do it._

**_It's not your fault._**

****

It was a short response and did nothing for her. And it was a lie. It had to be her fault – whatever was controlling her had to be let in somehow. She closed the book slowly and rested her head against the headboard of her bed, thinking hard.

_"We have a connection, don't you think?"_

"Yes, Tom," she whispered. "We do. How do you always know…?"


	5. Chapter 5

It lives! And this is one of the longer chapters, so…great. Yeah. Only one more chapter left after this, and it'll be finished. Thanks to those that reviewed!

Disclaimer: All recognizable characters belong to J.K. Rowling. But you're all smart – you've figured that out already.

-

_Fake _

_Chapter 5_

It happened again. It was like a crushing weight on her soul, walking past the hospital wing and seeing the figures in the beds. Two lying down, and one floating above the sheets, all the eyes blank and staring. She shuddered every time she walked past the hospital wing, but tears never rose to the surface. She had cried too much already – she was out of tears.

But what was worse – much, much worse – was that Harry was now being blamed for it. He had been found next to the bodies. Now her idiotic twin brothers tormented him at every possible opportunity: pretending to ward him off with garlic, asking him who he was planning to attack next…she tried to get them to stop, of course. That's not to say it worked.

But Harry seemed to be taking it well enough. He wasn't shaking and pale like she was half the time. She had to admire his strength throughout the whole ordeal. Maybe the knowledge that he wasn't the one attacking their classmates kept him from losing it. She was surprised she hadn't snapped yet.

_Well? _She had demanded of Tom. _How are you going to explain _this_ one?_

**_I wish I could say I knew how to stop it, Ginny…but I honestly don't._**

****

_You always know, _she had scribbled furiously. _Always.__ How is that, Tom?_

**_I don't understand._**

****

_Yes, you do. I can't deny it any more; you're doing something to me. The more I tell you, the more I have to tell you. And the more it goes on, the more I feel like I'm not myself anymore. If you don't tell me, I'm getting rid of this book. And then we'll see if it stops. Answer me. If you don't, I swear I throw the book away._

**_You're being irrational. Throwing the book away will do nothing – it will continue._**

****

_That's it. You're gone._

She felt liberated suddenly, like a weight had been slung off her shoulders. She stood up and was about to close the book when the words came…

**_It won't stop, never. You've given me too much._**

****

With a strangled gasp, she snapped the book shut. She tucked it under her arm and left the common room. She wasn't sure what she was going to do with it, but she didn't want to dispose of it in the common room. There was no fire yet – she couldn't burn it. And if she tossed it in a bin anyone could fish it out and it would only keep going. She skidded to a stop outside a familiar door. The painted words were still there; nothing Filch had done had erased them. And inside…Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. No one _ever _went in her bathroom.

"Perfect," she muttered, and pushed the door open, running to a random stall and cocking her arm.

"Goodbye, 'Tom'," she said through clenched teeth, and threw…

A miserable moan cut through the silence. It echoed off the linoleum, and she looked up to find that she had thrown the book straight through Moaning Myrtle herself.

"Uh…Myrtle!"

"You…you…"

Silvery tears were running down the ghostly girl's face. She shrieked suddenly as though burned, miserable wails echoing off the walls. She muttered something through her sobs and dove downwards, splashing Ginny with water.

"Yuck! I'm _sorry _already! Bloody ghost…"

Ginny shook her hands, sending droplets of water everywhere, and stomped out of the bathroom. She was damp and she was trembling, but she was free…free of that horrible book! She could have danced down the corridors. She had heard that the Mandrakes would revive the people in the hospital wing, so now, since she wouldn't be attacking everyone else, everything would go back to normal. She would never have to admit to anything.

She beamed and headed back to the common room to change and dry off before dinner. Things would finally be all right again…

So of course it all had to go drastically wrong.

-

It had all started on Valentine's Day. Ginny didn't know what she had been thinking – maybe if she hadn't sent the stupid dwarf out she wouldn't have had to be dragged back into it. But as it was singing its horrible little song Malfoy had nipped something out of Harry's bag. Ginny only needed to glance at the black leather cover to know what it was. Her blood froze.

And Malfoy was too daft to realize it wasn't Harry's. How much more obvious could you get, having your bloody name right on the front? But Harry had retrieved it with a Disarming Spell, and Ginny was left with a new dilemma on her hands.

Maybe Harry hadn't discovered the secret of the diary yet. But if he hadn't, why would he bother getting it back? Of course, he wouldn't have settled for Malfoy stealing a quill – why should a book be any different? She had mulled over this for ages before snapping out of it. The point was that Harry had the diary. Whether or not he had figured out what it did wasn't the issue, really. The issue was how to get it back. Because once he started writing, and Tom started writing back…the school would be in danger once more, and Harry would be the attacker!

Bad, bad, and worse! She wasn't sure what to do. For a long time she wondered if she should even try to get it back at all. She would only be dragging herself into the whole mess again, when the blame had just been shifted from her direction. But she couldn't let Harry take responsibility if something happened. She had found the diary. She had started writing in it. She had attacked the people – under someone else's influence, of course, but it was still her – not Harry.

Finally, four months after the attack on Nick and Justin, she made her decision. While the rest of the house was away at dinner, and Harry at Quidditch practice, she had stolen up to the boy's dormitory and located Harry's bed. She ripped through pillows, searched under the mattress, emptied drawers, all in a frenzy. She kicked his trunk open and threw things helter-skelter in her search, frantically looking for – there!

She pulled out the black book with mixed triumph and dread. She hadn't wanted to see the book again…but she flew down the stairs and went back to her own dorm, glaring at the book as though it was alive.

It was a mistake, she was sure of it, but she flipped it open and grabbed a quill.

_What have you done to Harry?_

Ink swam idly back to the surface.

**_Dear Ginny, is that you? I've missed your liveliness. How have you been?_**

_Don't try and lower my guard with your stupid small talk, "Tom", _she scrawled, a scowl forming on her face. _You've gone too far. What have you said to Harry?_

**_Why, nothing that would incriminate you. I only showed him what happened fifty years ago…I believe you'll be missing a big friend of yours soon, if you get my drift…_**

****

She had no idea what he was talking about, actually, but she wasn't about to tell him that. She swallowed past a lump in her throat. If he had said something about her…she'd be kicked out! Locked away…all her fears would be realized. Ink was spreading out on the page again.

****

**_I'm glad you're back, Ginny. I was getting bored._**

****

_Bored of what?_

There was no answer except for the splitting headache that followed her question. This time there was no drowsiness – she collapsed on the spot

-

_There was hissing again; lots of it. The thing sounded gleeful, like it had just been given a treat. The green blur wound its way through a sea of grey, studded at regular points with warm light. Windows…_

_There were voices up ahead…girls' voices. _

_"Mirror…corner…"_

_They were by a corner. The thing turned, there was a scream…the green vanished, a sound like something heavy being pushed across the room…she woke._


	6. Chapter 6

And here's the last chapter. This fic was short, but fun to write – thanks so much to everyone who's reviewed! I have responses for you…

Ninde Annare: Hope you're feeling better – being sick stinks. Your fic is amazing enough to make up for any gap between updates, so don't rush yourself. But when the next chapter comes, I'll pounce on it! ;) Thanks a lot for your review!

LupinLover88: I'm not offended at all; I can see where you're coming from. Thanks for reviewing, at least! I really appreciate it.

adcohen: I'm forcing myself to just stick with this one. I change it so much I'm stunned anyone still knows who I am. Thanks for your review!

Jay Ficlover: Interesting challenge, and I would have thought about it if I didn't already know how the story would go. I'll think about doing a separate fic based around that idea, though.

Strange Stranger: Wow, thanks! I'm glad you like it.

hi: I'm happy you think so! Thanks for your review.

Sinya: Yes, I took a leaf out of ShrugDuckie's book and looked at CoS to make sure I wasn't mixing up the order of events. Glad you noticed! Late or not, I always appreciate your reviews.

And that's all. Enjoy the last (sniff) chapter. I don't own any of the Harry Potter characters, of course, as I'm not J.K. Rowling.

_Fake_

_  
Chapter 6_

The guilt was terrible. The searing, scarring guilt. It bit into her like sharp teeth, wrapped itself around her heart like a cold snake and squeezed mercilessly. She couldn't sleep, she couldn't eat, homework was out the window…

Hermione. She had hurt Hermione. How was anyone going to forgive her now? She was pacing her dormitory like a caged animal, as if motion would keep the guilt far enough behind her to where it couldn't take hold.

So it _was_ the book. Tom had lied – he _could_ hurt her, just not physically. He had lied about everything. She stopped pacing and buried her face in her hands. How could she have let herself be so badly fooled? Not only had he gotten her to put unwavering faith in him, he _used_ her – made her hurt other people! Every time she opened that book, some other disaster occurred.

Was he lying when he said that she had given him too much? She had poured out her soul to him, everything she had. Her darkest secrets, her deepest fears, all to a lying, evil piece of scum! Not only was it terrible, it was humiliating! She had befriended a murderer…and turned into one herself!

She had tried to tell Harry. He had looked so horrified, she couldn't take it. She couldn't have him wondering who the traitor was…but Percy had ruined it all. If he hadn't come along, she may have been able to tell Harry what had been going on, or at least that she was the one who stole the diary from him. He would have hated her forever, but at least she would have gotten it off her chest.

But maybe she deserved to suffer this way. It was all her fault, really. She had ignored the advice of her parents and wrote back to Tom. If she had just listened to them, none of this would have happened. She should have gotten rid of the book first thing. But now she was in so deep there would be no going back, not ever. She was so miserable and guilt-ridden the thought actually came: _I wish I was dead_.

As if in answer to that wish, a headache so ferocious it blinded her racked her skull. She tried to fight it this time. She used all her strength to escape the darkness she could see edging in from the corners of her eyes. She managed to hold out for a few moments…but in the end it all rushed in like an unstoppable wave, and this time, there was no glimpse of what she was doing, no clue as to what new horror she was unleashing.

-

When she came to, she was lying on a smooth stone floor. A drop of water hitting the ground echoed for a long way. She opened her eyes further as they adjusted to the dim light and looked around.

She had no idea where she was. There was a long row of statues that looked like snakes, several puddles and drops of water falling from the ceiling, which was high enough up to be obscured by darkness. She looked behind her and yelped, her cry echoing far back into the chamber.

She was looking at an enormous stone foot. Slowly she looked up, taking in robes, a midriff, arms…she had to stand up to see the face, which looked curiously like a monkey's. She gulped and sat down again so she wouldn't have to look at the face.

Was she even in the castle anymore? She had no clue how long she had been lost in the darkness of her own mind. She looked down to see flecks of red paint on her robes, hard to see under splatters of slime and dirt. She wrinkled her nose, and glanced down at the floor.

Tom's diary. Her stomach lurched.

It was open to a page in the middle, and ink was spreading out on the page, staining the whiteness with his now terrible-looking handwriting.

**_Welcome to the Chamber of Secrets._**

****

"No…"

She scooted back in terror; her back was almost touching the stone feet. Tom continued.

**_It's been a long time to wait, and a terrible inconvenience, having to listen to the troubles of a little girl to grow stronger, but now you've finally given me enough. You gave your soul to me, Ginny…say goodbye._**

****

The diary was engulfed in light. A scream wormed its way into her throat and lodged there. With wide, terror-filled eyes she watched as the light grew upwards, took on a human shape, and slowly dulled. As it became easier to see, she could feel herself weakening drastically. She slumped to the floor and watched with bleary eyes as Tom, who was a boy of about sixteen, with black hair and darkly amused eyes, glanced over at her.

"Thank you, Ginny." The tone was mocking in its very sincerity.

He laughed, high, long, and shrill. Her blood turned to ice, and fog obscured he consciousness. She couldn't keep her eyes open anymore, the stone floor felt as though it was swallowing her slumping, caving skeleton...

-

It was like waking from a long dream, coming out of that haze. She was barely strong enough to sit up, but someone's hands were on her shoulders, pulling her upwards. She couldn't focus properly…she could make out dark hair…_Tom_? She wanted to jerk backwards but couldn't.

"Ginny?"

That voice…was very familiar.

"Ginny!"

No, not Tom: Harry! Her eyes snapped fully open and she found herself staring into emerald eyes. Dizziness washed over her, whether from the sudden return to consciousness or from the boy in front of her, she didn't know. She saw the blood on his robes, the dead basilisk to the side…and the diary in his hand. It had a sizzling hole through its center.

She told him everything, even as he tried to pull her to her feet. By the end of her confession she was sobbing so hard she didn't think she made any sense, but he seemed to get the gist of it.

"It's all right," he said soothingly, helping her stand. "Riddle's finished. Look! Him _and_ the basilisk."

He showed her the ruined diary again. She could answer only in tears.

"C'mon Ginny," he said, still gently. "Let's get out of here."

"I'm going to be expelled!" she wailed, hardly listening to him. It was as if she had suddenly lost the ability to keep her thoughts in her head – they had to come out of her mouth. "I've been looking forward to coming to Hogwarts ever since B-Bill came and n-now I'll have to leave and – _what'll Mum and Dad say?_"

The thought terrified her. They'd disown her, or worse. She felt herself crying again. She was an incessantly babbling water fountain. She was really stupid. And Tom…she glanced back into the darkness of the chamber as Harry led her out, as if expecting to see him standing there, smiling coldly after her.

_"Thank you, Ginny." _Was it really over? The dull ache in her head hadn't quite faded. She would be stunned if it didn't stay forever, an eternal reminder of what had happened, what she had done. It had been so horrible. And yet somewhere deep, deep inside her, she felt a pang of something akin to loss.

-

Ron was ecstatic – he wouldn't stop hugging her. And the more he asked Harry, the harder she cried. Ron seemed to think her tears were due to joy, but really she couldn't have been more miserable or terrified. She could barely hug him back.

Lockhart was there, saying stupid things as usual, but this time with a very vague, not-full-of-himself air. The bright bird soared past them and landed at the mouth of a wide pipe, holding its tail feathers out. It glanced at her briefly, and there was a human sort of gleam in its eyes, full of compassion directed at her. It made her feel a little better, somehow. Harry took hold of the feathers, Ron grabbed his hand, she grabbed Ron's, and Lockheart took hold of hers. She felt light, very light, and with a flash of scarlet and gold the bird took off, pulling them by its tail up the pipe as though they weighed no more than air, which is what she felt like just now.

She wished the exhilarating ride could have gone on forever, but it had to end. And as she hit the cold tile of what she recognized to be Myrtle's bathroom because of all the water, all the misery came back, colder than the floor. The tears started up again, unstoppable.

It was over, she told herself. It was over, at least no one would be hurt anymore. But there was still so much to be upset about. Harry, once it all sunk in, would hate her forever. Her parents would have a fit, and Mum would probably cry. Dumbledore would kick her out, her whole family would be so ashamed.

And she couldn't stop crying.

Some of it was for Tom. She couldn't help but remember how he had always comforted her. Even if all of it was a lie, she wondered briefly if he would have had the words to ease her misery now. Somehow she doubted even he would be able to make this seem like it could get better.

He had been her mentor, he had been her friend. In a way, she had cared about him as much as Harry, though it wasn't a crush. She had wanted to give something back to him, had wished she could make him feel better every once in a while. She had been grateful for him every day until things started to go wrong, and even then it was so hard to look past his kindness to her and find that it had all been a farce. The sense of loss she'd had in the Chamber of Secrets came back.

She wasn't sorry for losing the person that Tom Riddle really was. She missed the person he had pretended to be. It hurt her to think that the first real friendship she thought she had turned out to be a trick. Was everyone really not what they appeared to be? She didn't know if she could ever trust anyone again. Was every person, when you came down to it, really fake?

She looked at Harry and thought that maybe they weren't. She hoped not.

_Fin_


End file.
